NED
He had been swamped with work—meetings at the small council, attending court pleas, and his secret investigations. He thought he was getting somewhere, especially after visiting Robert's bastards. It felt like the truth was staring him in the face—he just couldn't name it.
He made his way to the throne room where the court would start its session soon. A farmer came forward, travel-worn and wide-eyed with fear. He spoke of his village burning and described the culprit and his band of lawless men. It was the same group Ned had heard about before—and only after the third plea did the name fall into place. Ser Gregor Clegane. Tywin Lannister's dog.
Looking at the man in front of him, his suspicions were cemented. Tywin Lannister had released his dog in retaliation for what Catelyn had done. He had already started this silent war, and Ned knew that his next judgment would escalate things further. He stood and looked at the gathered crowd.
He declared that Ser Gregor Clegane would be stripped of his knighthood and that Tywin Lannister would be summoned to the capital to answer for these crimes.
He doubted the Lord of Casterly Rock would come, but as Hand, he would mete out justice. It was the right thing to do. He didn't blame Catelyn for Tywin's response—but he wished she had waited.
He sat through the rest of the morning petitions, silent but coiled, before finally returning to his solar in the Hand's tower. But the day wasn't done with him.
Later, cloaked against the gathering storm, he rode through the rain-slick streets to a brothel in the city's south end—another lead, another one of Robert's bastards to confirm. The fourth child, like the others, had black hair and blue eyes. Even in shadow, the Baratheon features were impossible to miss.
The skies had turned dark by the time he stepped outside. Rain was falling in earnest now. He mounted his horse—
And that was when he saw them.
Jaime Lannister and a dozen men. More, perhaps.
"Where is my brother, Stark?" The Kingslayer asked.
"I was not there when your brother was taken. Had I been, he would not have fled," he answered.
Jaime drew his sword and Ned's men did the same, with Jory positioning himself at arm's reach.
"Then I'll make certain you're here when the gold cloaks come for you," Jaime smirked before spurring his horse forward.
There was no warning. No ceremony. Just the sudden crash of steel in the rain.
Jory's horse reared as he met Jaime's charge, the two knights slashing from the saddle. This was no joust—no clean passes or tourney rules. Blades hissed through wet air, hooves slammed against stone. Their mounts jostled, slid, kicked out. Jaime fought like a man born to the saddle, striking low, then high, feinting hard to the left before wheeling and stabbing up beneath Jory's guard.
The dagger punched through the eye slit of Jory's helm. He screamed, slumped sideways, blood fountaining from the wound as his horse panicked beneath him.
Ned's shout was lost in the rain.
He turned just as another rider came at him from behind—sword angled down. The blade tore into his left leg. Pain burst white-hot through him. His horse bucked, whinnied, slipped on the slick cobblestones. He tried to hold the reins, but his fingers faltered.
Horse and rider went down in a blur of chaos.
The stallion toppled hard, crushing Ned's leg beneath its weight. He felt the bone snap. A scream punched out of him between clenched teeth.
The fight broke around him—mud, blood, hooves. Stark men cut down. Steel on steel. Someone crying for help. Then it was fading. Fast.
"You've killed my men… this will not go unpunished." He forced the words out, breath shaking.
Jaime had already turned. His golden armor blurred against the storm.
"Tell Lord Tywin that when you see him. Oh, wait—you won't."
Then he galloped off through the rain, and the last thing Ned saw was Jory's lifeless body crumpled in the gutter.
SANSA
She didn't understand what was happening, but knew something was terribly amiss. The Hand of the King was second only to the king himself, yet her father had been attacked—and now lay crippled, bedridden for a sennight. The king had raged and demanded Ser Jaime Lannister be brought back to King's Landing.
Ser Jaime was a Kingsguard. Why would he do that to her father? And Father wouldn't tell her anything. Septa Mordane claimed ignorance as well. The queen had been nothing but kind to Sansa, though by now, she understood it was all for show.
She had once dreamed of court life—the beautiful pageantry, the splendid tourneys, the magnificent feasts. There was still so much she hadn't experienced. As one of the queen's ladies-in-waiting, she cherished their walks and outings in the city. She had even once accompanied the princess on a cruise along the Blackwater Bay.
This was what she used to dream of.
Sometimes she wondered: had she not accepted Domeric's suit, would she have been the one to marry Joffrey? Would she have become the future queen? But no—her sister was the one being trained now in courtly graces, even if Arya only did what was required of her.
Of course, she wasn't blind anymore to what those dreams truly meant.
The queen's perfect smiles. Joffrey's hidden cruelty—especially after the incident at the Trident. They were exactly what Ruyan had warned her about. Sansa still wanted the beautiful life she'd imagined, but more and more, it slipped away. Every time she found something delightful at court, something exciting, she was reminded of the danger lurking beneath it. Even Domeric's letters said the same.
She went to her father's chamber and found Arya already there. Father looked pale, his wound angry and red. Was the Grand Maester not treating it properly? If it were Maester Luwin—or the Yitish healers—it wouldn't look so inflamed.
"Good, you're both here," their father said.
"Are you dying?" Arya asked, her voice filled with concern.
"I am not." Father smiled weakly, trying to reassure her.
"You need to prepare," he continued. "I've asked Vayon to find a ship that leaves immediately. It's no longer safe. You'll return to Winterfell."
At this, Arya smiled. "Can I bring Syrio? He could teach me along with Ruyan's guards—combine both their techniques."
"Is this because of what happened?" Sansa asked quietly. "Why did Ser Jaime attack you, Father?"
"I cannot answer that, sweetling. But know it's best to get you all safe for what is to come."
Sansa looked at her father. He still saw her as a child. She wanted the truth—all of it.
"The queen won't allow it, though," Sansa said. "I'm in her service, and Arya is still being trained as a potential bride for Joffrey."
Arya's face soured. "I would never want to marry him."
She turned sharply toward Sansa. "If you weren't betrothed to Bolton, then it should've been you." There was heat in her eyes now. "Admit it—you've always wanted to be queen. Not Lady of the Dreadfort."
Sansa looked at their father. "Father, what happens now? Is Arya still going to be betrothed to the prince?"
"When the time comes," Father said as he looked at Arya, "I'll find you a good husband. Someone kind, gentle, and brave."
"Good," Arya muttered. "Because I don't want Joffrey."
She paused, then added more quietly, "Sometimes I think—I don't want to marry anyone at all."
"It's your duty, as a lady," Sansa reminded her.
"It should have been you who marries Joffrey," Arya snapped. "You'd be happier as queen than I would."
Sansa frowned. "That's not fair—"
"He's nothing like his father," Arya continued, her voice growing louder. "That old drunk king might've been awful, but at least he laughed. Joffrey's cruel. He's cold. He's pure Lannister—not just how he acts. Look at him. Even his hair."
The words hung in the air.
Sansa saw Father go still. Then he looked away, slowly—quiet, distant, as if he'd just seen something he'd missed before.
DOMERIC
Domeric put down the latest letter from his betrothed, Sansa. Her penmanship remained impeccable despite the tremor of concern he detected between her carefully chosen words.
It was the final piece in an intricate puzzle Domeric had been quietly assembling. Just a fortnight ago, he had received correspondence from Mychel Redfort, his foster brother from the Vale, detailing Tyrion Lannister's trial. It had been a spectacle by all accounts—chaotic, humiliating for both accuser and accused—and the resulting retaliation from Tywin Lannister had sparked the tension that now sat like a blade between houses.
Sansa's letter was more carefully composed, each sentence measured and deliberate, but no less revealing. She wrote of Ser Gregor Clegane's activities in the Riverlands, of burnt villages and quiet rumors circulating among the court ladies. And now, Lord Stark had been attacked in the streets of King's Landing by the queen's brother himself.
"Lady Stark was impulsive," Domeric noted, fingers still resting on the parchment. "Taking the Imp at a public inn, with witnesses from multiple houses—it was premature."
His father stood by the hearth, cup of hippocras in hand. The flames carved long shadows across his pale face, highlighting the colorless eyes that revealed nothing of his thoughts.
"She's already started this war," Roose observed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Whether she intended to or not, the Starks showed their hand early."
He sipped delicately from his cup. "You wonder if Robb Stark knows about them."
"The princess might have," Domeric said, rising to pace the length of the solar. "I've had reports from our men in Winter Town. Robb began drilling the guard just after Lord Stark departed for the capital. The armory's production has doubled. Grain stores are being consolidated."
His mind raced through the implications. The Dreadfort's position hung in precarious balance—their ancient rivalry with the Starks tempered only by his betrothal to Sansa. If war came, as it surely would, House Bolton's response would determine their future for generations.
"Then it appears the Starks aren't so outmanoeuvred after all," Roose observed, his expression unchanged despite the significance of this revelation.
Domeric nodded slowly. "Sansa is still in the capital. She knows something is wrong. Her descriptions of court activities have grown shorter, replaced by inquiries about Northern matters. She's preparing mentally for a return." He tapped the letter. "She mentions Lord Stark's injury three times. Too injured to act, she implies."
"And the girls remain in the lion's den," Roose said softly. "That's leverage. But also risk."
The unspoken question hung between them: what value did a betrothal hold if the bride didn't survive to fulfil it?
"The alliance with Winterfell was carefully negotiated," Domeric said, keeping his voice even despite the urgency building in his chest. Every advantage House Bolton had secured over the past year stemmed from their new position as future kin to Winterfell. Sansa's safety wasn't merely a matter of honor—it was the cornerstone of their strategic advancement.
They stood in silence for a moment, the fire crackling low between them.
"The lords of the Vale are humiliated," Domeric continued, analyzing the broader situation. "Lysa Arryn has withdrawn to the Eyrie, taking the knights of the Vale with her. The Riverlands are already burning. The North prepares quietly, and now Tywin Lannister is summoned to court like a common criminal."
"Summoned," Roose murmured. "But not bound."
His father's eyes narrowed slightly—the only indication of intense thought behind his placid expression. "You want to extract the girl."
It wasn't a question. Domeric didn't deny it.
"If we secure Sansa before open conflict, we position ourselves uniquely," he explained. "Not acting against the crown directly, merely protecting our betrothed. It would maintain our options regardless of which way the war turns."
Roose considered this, turning the cup slowly in his pale fingers. "And if we fail? We expose our hand early. The Lannisters would never forget such an attempt."
"If we wait and she becomes a hostage—or worse—we lose everything we've built." Domeric kept his voice level, though the stakes couldn't be higher. "This isn't about the girl herself. It's about what she represents."
"The Stark-Bolton alliance," Roose acknowledged. "One of the rare few over thousands of years."
He set the cup down with deliberate precision. "We will watch. And we will prepare. When the great houses bleed, the cracks begin in the stone."
Roose said nothing more, and Domeric knew the matter was closed—for now. His father would never risk a move that exposed them too soon. And he would never risk him. Not even for a Stark girl.
Domeric glanced again at the sealed letters on the table, the candlelight flickering over the wax. For all their information, they were still looking at shadows.
And by the time the next raven arrived, it might already be too late.
And if the girl was already gone?
Then the game had moved without them—and someone else had taken the first piece.